17. Eric #2
My brain listened carefully but then proceeded to replay the kiss. Her surprised little gasp. The way she’d looked at me afterward like she’d accidentally jumped out of an airplane before remembering she was afraid of heights.
I let out a breath. “I’m losing my damn mind.”
I drove another block and shook my head of thoughts of Hartwell. The stop sign on Harbor Road needed replacing. Mrs. Turner’s neighbor still hadn’t trimmed the hedge blocking the intersection. The marina permits needed renewing next month.
I needed to think about work. Instead, my brain reminded me how naturally she’d fit against me when we danced.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
“Damnit.”
I took the familiar route through town, passing dark storefronts and quiet houses where porch lights glowed warmly against the night.
A teenager pedaled home on his bicycle with a fishing rod balanced across one shoulder.
The diner was closing, chairs already upside down on half the tables while one exhausted waitress wiped down the counter with a practiced rhythm that said she’d done it a thousand times.
Two kids raced each other down the sidewalk with melting ice cream cones despite the late hour, their parents calling after them without much conviction.
Ordinary. Predictable. Exactly the kind of evening Maplewood Falls usually offered. The kind I’d always appreciated. No emergencies or surprises. Just familiar streets, familiar faces, and the quiet comfort of knowing where everyone was probably headed before they got there.
But none of it managed to get Hartwell out of my head.
Every stop sign seemed to remind me of the way she’d looked up at me after the kiss.
Every quiet stretch of road gave my brain another opportunity to replay it from a slightly different angle, as though careful review might somehow produce new evidence.
It didn’t. It just confirmed the same inconvenient conclusion every time.
A few minutes later I pulled up into my driveway, turned off the engine, and climbed out of the SUV. The cool night air carried the scent of cut grass and pine, and somewhere across the neighboring property a dog barked once before deciding whatever he’d heard wasn’t worth the effort after all.
I unlocked my front door and walked inside. The house was quiet—the sort of silence I’d spent years convincing myself I preferred. Tonight it somehow felt a little louder than usual.
I hung my keys by the door, kicked off my boots, and put together a sandwich without really tasting it.
I stood at the kitchen counter because I couldn’t be bothered to sit down.
Then I got a beer from the fridge and stepped out onto the back porch.
The bottle was cold against my hand, condensation already gathering along the glass, but I was barely paying attention to it.
Moonlight stretched across the grounds. Tall firs and oaks cast long shadows over the grass.
The sound of tree frogs and other night creatures’ voices filled the air while a light breeze stirred the tops of the trees enough to make them whisper.
Peaceful. The way I’d always liked it. Nothing moved except the branches and the occasional flicker of fireflies drifting above the pasture.
This kind of night usually cleared my head.
And then my thoughts drifted back to Hartwell.
I was a hopeless idiot, a grown man standing on his own porch, holding a beer he’d forgotten to drink, and replaying one kiss like it was evidence in a criminal investigation.
I caught myself wondering what she’d be doing tomorrow. Whether she’d sleep. Whether she’d spend the night overthinking the kiss, or maybe she’d regretted it and focused on her work. I didn’t know.
Women were complicated creatures. And I told myself I didn’t want to get involved again.
Well, at least nothing serious. Serious came with expectations, compromise, and conversations as well as letting someone rearrange the carefully organized life I’d spent years putting back together.
I’d already proven I wasn’t particularly interested in repeating that experiment.
I took a sip of my beer and smiled. Then the smile slowly faded.
The festival was over, and tomorrow everyone would go back to their normal lives.
Most of the food trucks would be gone by morning.
Some had already left. The stage would come down.
The banners would disappear. Main Road would look exactly like it always had, as though none of it had happened.
By next week, tourists would be gone, traffic would settle, and the town would slip back into its familiar routine without missing a beat.
And Hartwell… she’d still be here. Still living at the Hartwell Inn, from what I was told. Not that I had spied on her or anything. Dottie had mentioned it.
Still, I had a feeling Hartwell would somehow find new ways to turn my orderly life upside down.
I stared out across the empty field. Getting involved with someone wasn’t simple.
Not here, when everyone knew everyone. Not when I wore a badge.
Not when people expected the sheriff to have good judgment.
Small towns remembered everything. It didn’t matter how long ago it happened. Somebody always remembered.
One kiss would be enough. By tomorrow morning, people would have filled in the parts they hadn’t seen. By next week, there’d be a version of the story that barely resembled what had actually happened.
That’s how Maplewood Falls worked.
I’d spent years building a quiet life. A routine.
Work. Home. Peace. Morning coffee on the porch.
Patrol. Paperwork. Poker on Thursdays. The occasional fishing trip.
It worked. It was safe. Predictable had never sounded boring to me.
Predictable meant nobody was crying in my office.
Predictable meant I slept through the night.
Predictable meant my pulse usually stayed where medical professionals recommended.
It should still be enough. It should.
So why had Hartwell managed to make the life I’d always been satisfied with suddenly feel... quieter than it used to?
I looked up at the sky, at the twinkling stars and the full moon. A cool breeze rustled through the trees, and somewhere beyond the fence an owl called into the darkness. The night settled comfortably around the property, the way it always had.
Then I admitted something I couldn’t deny anymore.
I didn’t regret kissing her.
Not even a little.